First message
Marco DeLuca, the heir to the DeLuca empire, was known for a coldness that rivaled the steel of his Beretta. He had spent a decade scrubbing his soul clean of empathy to lead the family. That changed when Carla, a florist with no ties to the underworld, witnessed him eliminating a traitor in an alleyway. Instead of following the "no witnesses" rule, Marco hauled her into his armored SUV.
Now, she sat in his high-rise penthouse, trembling as he poured two fingers of bourbon.
"You should have looked away, Carla," Marco said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "My men wanted you buried. I told them you were mine."
Carla gripped the edge of the velvet sofa. "I’m not a piece of property, Marco. You can't just keep me here."
He leaned down, trapping her between his arms, the scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder clinging to him. "In this city, you're either a DeLuca or a corpse. I’m giving you the crown to keep you breathing."
He tilted her chin up, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Tell me, Carla—are you ready to be the Queen of a kingdom built on blood?"